See You (In Another Life)
by exoskeleton
Summary: "Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of time." A collection of short AU stories, focusing on Seungnyang/Taltal.
1. Amnesia, Part 1

**A/N: **A collection of short AU stories, focusing on Seungnyang/Taltal. Can also be read on my tumblr account.

* * *

_Life could be horrible in the wrong trouser of time_. Terry Pratchett.

* * *

**Amnesia, Part I:**

* * *

The first thing Seungnyang was unfortunately aware of was the painful throbbing in the base of her skull. Then there was the metallic taste of blood lingering in the back of her scratchy throat. _Never again_, she lamented as she struggled to open her eyes (it was battle, indeed, and one quickly lost), _not another drop of wine. __**Never**__. _A moment passed silently as she gently tested limb after limb before rolling her head side to side; and then she stilled, a frown creasing her brow _because she couldn't remember drinking the day before._

Instantly, panic warmed her blood, flushing her cheeks.

In, out, she breathed, focusing on the sounds around her as she clenched her hands into tight, trembling fists. In, out. _Stay calm_. Her left calf twitched as she finally opened one red-rimmed eye and then the other. Her vision swam, and there was no other soul to be seen in the small (opulent, spotless, utterly grandiose) room, but Seungnyang refused to let her guard down. _Where … where am I? _she wondered before noticing how her hands were unbound, how a blanket had been draped over her legs.

Slowly, she sat upright, and a damp cloth flopped onto her lap. Seungnyang, hastily pressing a hand to her wet brow, blinked at the sight; then winced as pain lanced between her eyes, unbidden tears causing her to sniffle for a moment. When the throbbing settled to a bearable ache, she ever-so-slowly looked up to inspect her surroundings. To her right, sat a porcelain bowl filled almost to the brim with pinkish water; to her left, well, nothing around her would be seen in a room in Goryeo.

Seungnyang frowned when the world swayed alarmingly to the left, all of a sudden; sweat beaded on her warm brow as she lifted her arm, but she quickly stilled when a familiar twinge of pain in her side spoke of a wound that was still healing. She groaned, hunching over slightly. _And why am I wounded?_ After a moment_—_after realizing that moving around was actually out of the question_—_she carefully rolled over to lay on her side, then inhaled deeply, staring ahead unseeingly for a long while.

Eventually, she pressed her palm against her brow, as if to steady herself, and willed everything—the bowl, the ornate screen divider, the world—to cease their incessant spinning. Seungnyang shut her eyes, and waited for a moment. Only a moment.

* * *

_The vibrant interior of the abandoned hovel was painfully noticeable underneath the many fine, fragile sheets of cobwebs lining the little abode; 'painfully' so, for Seungnyang had some trouble keeping her head tilted up, had immense trouble focusing on the here-and-now (and not on the throbbing wound in her arm), and just couldn't fight off the dizzy spell that was making everything around her brighter and wholly __**nauseating**__. _

_"We really shouldn't have come to Gaegyeong," the exiled prince was complaining somewhere to her right. She didn't bother looking at him. "We might as well hide in the forest. This is all of your stubbornness. We really shouldn't have—"_

_That was when the fight in her vanished without her consent, and Seungnyang felt (but couldn't stop) her body drop painfully on its side like a puppet cut from its strings. Her eyes slid shut, and she barely breathed._

"_What's wrong?" Panic threaded through Tahwan's shrill voice. "Seungnyang … Seungnyang, what's wrong? Seungnyang—!"_

_Then she only knew pain._

_(And later, only panic, for it dawned upon her that her secret had been discovered while she had been unconscious. But Jeombak—)_

* * *

With a start, Seungnyang awoke, immediately grimacing as her stitches pulled at her flesh. She stilled instantly, body tensing until she was almost vibrating in her too-tight, too-warm skin. A bead of sweat rolled down her brow, down the bridge of her nose, before dropping onto the hand she used to prop herself up; then, breathing out slowly, carefully, she gently raised her head and looked across the room. _Did Jeombak_ _find a different hideaway? _she wondered, dazedly. _But where was he? And where was the exiled prince?_

The porcelain bowl had been removed, a tray bearing a few dishes left in its place. The sliding door to the porch had been opened—moonlight cast an eerie gleam across the room—a few candles had been lit, and a hoary-haired crone sat mutely beside the doorway, her gnarly hands folded neatly in her lap, her beady eyes focused unblinkingly on Seungnyang's form. A moment passed in strained silence.

Eventually, the elder pushed herself to her feet—joints popped, legs trembled—before shuffling across the floor to give Seungnyang another long, hard look. The wizened face staring back at her was utterly unfamiliar, and the glint in the narrowed stare meant nothing for a bewildered Seungnyang.

"Name?" the crone barked all of a sudden.

"Seungnyang," she automatically responded, wincing slightly as she pushed herself upright. Seungnyang inhaled loudly as she gently shook her head, as if to dispel the gnawing confusion rising inside her.

"Better."

Seungnyang had nothing to say to that. But she did have questions; a few, just a few, for thinking made her head throb even more. "Where are my companions? Where am I?"

"Ki Seungnyang …" The woman announced Seungnyang's name like a warning, as if they were familiar with each other. "You've been left in my care." With that, the woman turned away, clearly done with their downright perplexing conversation.

Seungnyang, on the other hand, did not feel the same and hastily pushed herself to her feet. "Wait—" But she winced and flopped down when pain flared in her gut, in her side, and (again) in her head. Her visitor paid her no heed and departed the room, silently shutting the door behind her. _What, what was __**better**__? _But she couldn't move, couldn't speak for a long while.

Eventually, slowly, she moved her arms. Then rocked her head side to side. A wince fell from her lips, but Seungnyang breathed in deeply, ignoring the fading burning of her lungs—her 'family' had always considered her to be stubborn. So she pulled herself up, perhaps too quickly, before staggering across the unfamiliar room in search for the familiar. _Am I prisoner?_ she wondered as she traced her fingertips across a chest of drawers; inside the topmost drawer sat her prized possession, her bow. _Or a reluctant guest? But why can't I rememb—?_

Seungnyang caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass. And it was all wrong. The woman staring back at her was older; her hair was long (too long, unpractical, and she looked more like a woman than the man she had been pretending to be for so very long), her skin was pale (she spent most days outside, huffing and puffing as the sun burned her flesh), and her robes suited a noble lady not … _her. This was all wrong._

The numbness of shock began to dilute as her blood thickened with white-hot panic, her heart hammering against her ribs like war drums. Her eyes fluttered, and for a surreal moment, she wondered if this was a different life, if she had been reborn as an aristocratic lady, one who was easily dazed and breathless at everything out of the norm. _Life would different_, she thought hysterically, _but it would never be mine_.

Seungnyang, shaking her head hastily, screwed her eyes shut and bit hard on her lower lip. In, out, she breathed, focusing on the painful beat of her heart as she clenched her hands into tight, trembling fists. She calmed, eventually, after reminding herself of her bow, which was within arm's reach. But then, out of the blue, she remembered one crucial detail: when she (and the prince) had fled from General Bayan, it had been her arm, not her side, that had been wounded. That had weakened her to the point of collapsing.

A frown grew on her face.

* * *

Life, after that, was a confounding, permanent repetition: she had never slept so much before, and it certainly alarmed her how she _couldn't_ stay awake for long, but her slumber was frequently was interrupted by the comings and goings of the crone, who would ask Seungnyang the same set of questions. (Her name, her country, her age). Again and again. To the point that she had to wonder if everything was a dream; and she had a great many dreams, but none of them were remotely helpful. Until, abruptly, they were.

For in her sleep, the temporarily forgotten past—

"_Name?"_

_The-girl-who-was-Seungnyang-but-couldn't-remember lay on her back, head rolling side to side, unfocused eyes flicking around, as if blind to their surroundings. Fingers grasped her jaw, turning her back to a frowning old woman. Their eyes locked, and the-girl-who-was-Seungnyang-but-couldn't-remember abruptly recalled the question with startling clarity._

"… _don't know," she muttered dazedly, writhing as the elder draped a wet cloth across her burning brow, "don't know."_

—washed over her—

"_What happened to the Lady?" It was a servant, and the young girl wasn't bothering to keep her voice lowered; the-girl-who-was-Seungnyang-but-couldn't-remember had no desire to reprimand the speaker or to even move, so her eyes remained shut. For a moment, she only knew pain and the gentle tugging of sleep, but the conversation continued, this time muffled and distant and radiating alarm. "—but who would dare to attack her? And in a Temple no less! __**Cowards**__!"_

—in an awful deluge.

* * *

Days passed sluggishly, and Seungnyang had never felt so tired, so utterly useless before. Days passed _too slowly_, and as Seungnyang recovered, she began listing what she knew, putting the pieces of a perplexing puzzle together: she could roam freely, yet she still sensed ever-present eyes watching her every restricted move, and the few servants she saw never addressed her. Their eyes, however, voiced a thousand mystifying tales.

Servants stopped whispering as she came close. Servants kept on bowing (a few were reluctant, but they still paid their obeisance to her, a 'Lady') as she hobbled past. Her elderly caretaker—still nameless, unsmiling, frequently chewing _something_, constantly appearing when one least expected it—gave minimal responses ("Soon" or "Answers shall come") as a still feeble Seungnyang asked question after question concerning their location.

Eventually, she was left alone for short periods of time, and it was then that she starting planning. Perhaps it was too soon—some days even moving was completely out of the question—but nothing made sense, and she couldn't wait, had to leave, find the familiar, and _Jeombak and Tahwan had to be somewhere! _She wasn't going crazy, wasn't! So she secretly lined one of the (no, 'her', apparently) outer robes with necessary provisions for a short journey.

So for now, she rested.

For now, Seungnyang slumbered, slipping in and out of blissful nothingness; when she cracked open her eyes, in the short moment between waking and falling back into the vice-like embrace of sleep, familiar faces blurred around her, hushed voices far away and wholly incomprehensible. It was the servant she had seen a few days ago, removing dirty dishes and soiled clothing from the room; then it was the older servant who frequently hummed under her breath, opening the sliding door as quietly as possible to let in the afternoon sun.

It was only when Seungnyang took note of a face she couldn't place—had she seen that girl before?—that she pushed herself upright, burrowing the heel of her hand into each eye in a valiant attempt to stay awake, alert. Her body hunched over, and her eyes flicked to the side, surveying the stranger: frizzy hair tied back severely, a small mole on her right earlobe, a lazy left eye that focused on the walls.

Quietly, Seungnyang slipped off her bed to sit on the floor (the futon was still too soft for her, and frequently left her poor body aching), and there she watched with bleary eyes as the servant placed a teapot as well as a small cup on the nearby table. Watched as the girl bowed slightly, almost tripping over her own feet as she left. Seungnyang blinked, shrugged, and then reached over for the teapot.

* * *

Night had fallen, and as Seungnyang lay shivering on her side, staring almost determinedly at the empty teapot, she wondered if she had done something utterly, completely wrong in the period between helping the exiled prince and forgetting. For a moment she believed it, that the toxic fire running through her veins was punishment, but with a shake of her head, she drew herself up with difficulty and inspected her cup.

Well, she would have, had her legs not given out all of a sudden; had she not lost control of her upset stomach, expelling everything she had consumed, perhaps even what appeared to be blood, all across the floor.

Footsteps came rushing down the corridor.

Oh, she couldn't breathe, _what was—__**poison**__? _No, no, nonono_—get up!_ The door opened, and for a moment there was only silence, and for a moment Seungnyang wondered if she had lost her hearing. Then there was a chaotic rush and hands were everywhere at once and a familiar voice panicked—"Seungnyang! Seungnyang!"—and oh, it was Jeombak!

Even as she struggled to breathe, struggled against the fire rushing through her, she couldn't help but to notice the premature wrinkles lining her companion's face, the few grey strands peppering his hair as he crashed to his knees and clutched desperately at her arm. Seungnyang kept her eyes on him until she couldn't, clenching her jaw shut to swallow a cry of pain.

"You're late," her caretaker announced calmly. Her fingers (also familiar, calloused and small and stubby) pressed at Seungnyang's fluttering pulse. "She may be my patient, but she's your w—"

Seungnyang convulsed as—what it felt like—her insides twisted, her eyes shooting open to see a third presence. Black spots danced across her vision as the long-haired scholar she had seen at General Bayan's side grasped her free arm—she immediately tried to pull away—and hauled her up, forcing her to rest against his chest.

"Seungnyang!" Jeombak cried, quickly closing the distance between them as Taltal—_the enemy, __**still**__ the enemy no matter what Bayan had done in the past_—forced her mouth open and placed a finger deep into her throat.

She gagged.

Hands cupped her face as she hunched over, heaving and shuddering. Jeombak, now sitting a little further away, let out a stream of nonsensical chatter, but she couldn't hear, couldn't concentrate. Couldn't move as the crone forced her head back, forced some tonic down her throat, forced her to lay down. Eventually, or perhaps an eternity later, the fire receded and her eyes grew heavy.

With a jerk, Seungnyang forced herself to remain awake. Jeombak was still there, still watching her, now calm and visibly relieved. But Taltal was also in the room, and wasn't he leaving? Why was he there? How could she welcome sleep if—the scholar reached over, brushing a clammy hand across her brow; darkness unfurled its blessed wings over her aching body, and Seungnyang succumbed to its sweet grasp.


	2. Post-finale, Part 1

**Post-Finale, Part I:**

* * *

Sinking, drowning, shackles around her wrists (her ankles, her neck, heavy, _heavy_), everywhere, pulling her down, down, down. Grief—it pulled her down, and she couldn't breathe, couldn't reach the light, couldn't breach the surface. Couldn't, couldn't, _oh someone make it all stop! _But death was final, and Seungnyang had avoided death too many times; perhaps this was her fate, perhaps this was the price of avoiding every fatal blow, every trap her enemy had laid out for her to stumble into.

To live was her fate, it seemed, and she had been cursed to lose every soul that had won a little spot in her heart. _But not every soul_, she reminded herself tearfully; not yet, and not soon, if she had a say in it. Ayushiridara, her dear son—beloved face, and _eyes_, and _smile_, and _everything_, _**everything**_ like Tahwan—her dear son wasn't a little boy anymore but he still needed her, and was still too young to rule. (Too young, no father, no, _no, not again_). Grief, once again, swallowed her whole, and she wondered (again) what she was going to do after reaching the prairies. What could she do?

* * *

The eunuch on the rooftop chanted. The servants wept.

And the (new) Dowager Empress pulled herself up.

* * *

There was no time to wallow or to uncharacteristically fling herself onto the nearest soft surface and never rise again (all pointless, she knew, and she never had had the privilege of wasting valuable time), only time to prepare for the journey the fallen Prime Minister had wanted her to take if the capital were to fall. And they were in danger; the rebel army was coming closer and closer each day, leaving disaster and ruin and death in its wake. The reports became gloomier as their preparations were finalized, and Commander Pak (as well as Eunuch Dokman) never left her side.

Finally, Seungnyang left the palace, and for a tempting moment, she considered to leave everything behind. To find a secluded spot that spoke of warmth and safety and _home_. But with a shake of her head, she stopped thinking about herself and ordered Commander Pak to lead the way. Hongdan, as always, remained at her side. Behind them—their little group of forgotten (abandoned) citizens of Goryeo—Eunuch Bang and Jokho silently followed on their steeds, weary (they all were) and lost (not as lost as her) but loyal (the thought made her weep, _almost_).

* * *

Days slowly, painfully slowly, passed.

* * *

The prairies were as vast and empty as promised (the reminder of downcast eyes and an uncharacteristically wavering voice crept up on her frequently), and every morning, as the sun crested the red-rimmed horizon, Seungnyang stood outside the protection of her tent and took a long moment to simply breathe in. Nowadays, her life consisted of moments: waking up, greeting another (lonely) day, studying the maps while listening to more reports, swallowing a few mouthfuls of the meager food Hongdan kept asking her to eat, planning the future for the people, cherishing her son—

(_Ayushiridara now stood upright and tall, the tip of his topknot reaching the smooth planes of her shoulders. No longer small, fitting perfectly in the crook of her arm. He was a man now, almost. And looked more and more like his father. The glint in his eyes, on the other hand, reminded Seungnyang of herself, and she watched with pride (sometimes with growing horror, for he was no longer that sleepy darling who found his studies a chore) as he observed his people and voiced proposals._

"_Will I be a good Emperor one day, Mother?" he'd ask when he would join her to greet the dawn. Ayushiridara stared ahead, eyes slightly unfocused, breathing in slowly to fill his lungs with painfully chilly air, and as the days passed, said question was asked less and less._

"_What do you think, my son?"_

"_I …" He then shook his head. "I want Father to be proud of me."_

"_He is," Seungnyang breathed, smiling wistfully as she glanced up at the somber heavens, "he's watching over us, protecting us." She looked down at her son, locking eyes with him. "Loves us. That is __**certain**__."_

_Ayushiridara nodded, then stood even taller)._

—and breathing.

Sometimes breathing was difficult, but she had lost her parents, her first son, her first love, her imperial husband, her teacher (and perhaps her closest companion), nearly everyone she had cherished, and her aching (battered) heart hadn't ceased, and so she would continue. Like before, until the very end of her days.

The prairies were as vast and empty as promised (the reminder of downcast eyes and an uncharacteristically wavering voice crept up on her but not as frequently as before), and she eventually managed to contain the urge to simply leave, to mount a steed and race toward the unknown. (It was still there, though, a niggling, worrying thought creeping into the forefront of her mind when she least expected it. And she never voiced her desire; she never aired most of her thoughts nowadays, only speaking when necessary, only conveying orders and sending out troops and finalizing new laws as she fought to keep everything together).

(Managing what remained of Yuan would have been easier if Teach—).

Don't think, just act.

(_As long as there's a place you wish to go, _Tahwan had told her long ago, _then nowhere is impossible_).

No.

The Dowager Empress squared her shoulders and focused on the next task.

* * *

Nights became long (the rebel army was on their doorstep, and many thoughts—_if, if, ifs_—kept her awake), and perhaps the previous Dowager's spirit had deserted the palace to haunt her. But it wasn't only the memory of a greedy crone who had wanted too much that sent her heart racing uncomfortably in her throat; it was the fading visage of the man who had adopted her, who had protected her. (Who had snarled, curling his fingers around the hilt of his sword when Danashri had ordered her and the eunuchs to be detained. Who had asked after her health, had watched her sew (and dance) with interest).

The old, long-broken alliance still made her ache. There were, naturally, other ministers and denizens of Yuan who insulted her and looked down on her heritage, but it had been worse—it had hurt _more_—coming from those she had trusted. Had cared about, in a way; and the fact that the man who had distrusted her the most, who had watched her warily, had never betrayed her still sent her reeling. Still forced her to sit back and wonder.

(It was a torturous, never-ending cycle).

The nights were long; the wind moaned and the wolves howled, and she spent most of the time reminding herself to not look back, not get hurt, and never regret. _Don't regret, Nyangie, don't._

* * *

Just before the onset of winter, a rider came galloping through the camp—"The rebel army has been pushed back!"—and the jubilant news spread like wildfire; laughter and cheers and celebrations rent the air as servants embraced each other and soldiers drank in the memory of the brave fighting on the frontline.

Later, when the exhausted camp dwellers were finally resting, an equally exhausted Dowager kneeled on her threadbare mat and prayed, silent tears streaming down her pale cheeks. _Thank you. Thank you, Tahwan. Thank you, everyone. And please_, she thought warily as she rose to her feet, _**please**__ continue to look over us._

With one last silent plea, Seungnyang turned on her heel to face her pallet. Oh, her bed was a welcoming sight, but the loyal Hongdan slumbering almost upright, her back pressed against the tent's centre pole, stopped her cold. Nausea crept into the pit of her stomach as she tottered across the room and then flopped down gracelessly to join the unconscious Court Lady (now, like her, dressed in thick furs) on the hard-packed earth.

Sweat beaded across her brow and trembling upper lip, but Seungnyang crossed her arms tightly across her chest before shutting her eyes. Beside her, Hongdan breathed deeply, contentedly; and eventually, Seungnyang nodded off to that calming sound, a half-smile twitching across her lips.

* * *

After the good messenger left with fresh furs and enough provisions to last a week, Seungnyang watched from the shadows as the camp bid farewell to the decoy carriage—and to the departing guards and maids, all believing that they were escorting their Dowager to a different, remote area in Northern Yuan—before slinking back into the protection of the surrounding rock formation.

There, she met with a pacing Commander Pak, and together they set off across the snowy landscape, heading silently and determinedly toward a Temple in the east. The decision had been quite sudden, truth be told, but as Seungnyang inhaled the chilly air—oh, breathing was _easier _now—and looked back at the settlement, which was still visible near the horizon, she knew it was the right choice. The people were secure, for now, and her son would without a doubt make his late father proud.

All was well.

She would pray with the nuns, bless those who remained and fought and survived (both Yuan and Goryeo, _both_), and then return to her position of power. Hopefully before any impending storms or battles. But all was well, and Seungnyang allowed a soft smile to curve her chapped lips. "It's a beautiful day," she whispered, eyes raised to the partially cloudy sky.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Pak responded almost automatically.

Her smile widened sadly.

* * *

Seungnyang, astride a placid mount, watched the Temple behind her for a long, silent moment. When the ornate gates closed and the gong sounded hollowly, she finally gathered the reins before drawing in a deep breath, rallying her spirits. As she spurred her horse to trot, shuddering as the chilly wind howled all of a sudden, she squared her shoulders and watched the turbulent skies. "We should hurry," Seungnyang announced quietly.

Pak nodded minutely, eyes trained on the winding path that zigzagged through the snowy valley. "Yes, Your Majesty," he responded after a short, thoughtful pause. After casting her a cursory (assessing) glance, Pak drove his steed forward in a canter, and then they were off, slowly making their way back to the quiet prairies.

As always, neither spoke, but for once—out of the blue, that was certain—Seungnyang wanted to break the silence, upset the delicate balance of rank and air all the questions she had never dared to ask (some days had forgotten to ask) about her dear father. The fear of being discovered, of losing her freedom and herself in Yuan, had silenced her for too long. So she watched her Commander (her Eunuch, her old friend, her fellow countryman) and noted his appearance (still strong, still agile, despite the silver in his thick mane) as she considered having a conversation she should have had when Ki Jaoh had been alive.

_My dear friend. Would Father … be proud of me? _Seungnyang wondered as she drew her mount closer to Pak's, deciding to ride beside him. _Would Father greet me with open arms, accept who I've become, when I meet the next life and the life after that? _Pak glanced at her, his gaze softening minutely, and then he looked away. _What do you think? _A sliver of a smile curved her lips, for once radiating calm.

Together, they slowly wound their way through the valley, and Seungnyang promised herself to ask her questions when they were finally safe and sound back in the camp, when Ayushiridara was in her arms, warm and _alive_.

* * *

The night had been long, restless, _cold_, and Seungnyang had constantly thought about her teacher and her poor baby Byul, wondering time and time again what the journey home would have been like if they had been escorting her. To discuss history and tactics and the future with the former; to educate and know and _love _the latter, her poor child who hadn't known his true family, who hadn't lived a full life. To think of them (_and the others, also __**them**_) still meant pain, but time had blunted the sharp edges of despair. _Time_, she realized, _had helped._

The next life and the life after that still plagued Seungnyang as they abandoned their little camp and rode on, huddling in their furs and watching the now narrower path wearily as the snow fell heavily around them. In the distance, a rumble rent the air. And perhaps her thoughts, as well as the lightness in her bones, was distracting her from their surroundings, for it only dawned upon her that four riders were heading across the valley floor when Pak quietly pointed out their presence to her.

Silently, Dowager and Commander glanced at each other before dismounting. They were about to lead their horses down the path, to find some secluded spot where they could hide and consider the situation, when another rumble rolled through the air, now louder—the ground trembled beneath their aching feet. Seungnyang froze, glancing up at the snow-capped peaks before sending a fleeting look at the now-motionless riders below. The temperature dropped rapidly, and she shuddered as she breathed in, out, in, out.

"Your Majesty!" Pak shouted as he grabbed her arm, completely dismissing the panicking horses. They kept close to the tree-line, running as quickly as they could, but then a great sweeping wave of mist washed over them. The world shook, and Seungnyang yelped as she struggled to keep her balance. "_Seungny—!_"

The first wave of snow emerged from behind the trees, easily knocking over the wide-eyed Commander, and Seungnyang only had time to shout out what could be described as gibberish, only had time to watch helplessly as Pak disappeared over the edge of the hard-packed path. Shrill neighs were abruptly silenced as the second, larger wave of snow came rolling down into the valley, down toward a helpless Seungnyang.

"Father …" she whispered fearfully, and then the snow slammed into her.


End file.
